


They Shall Be One

by greerian



Category: The Book of Mormon - Parker/Stone/Lopez
Genre: Angst, Fear of Death, Goodbyes, HIV/AIDS, M/M, One Night Stands, Phone Calls & Telephones, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8246164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerian/pseuds/greerian
Summary: Genesis 2:24 - "Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Connor and Mafala aren't married. It's meant to be a joke of sorts between them. Their relationship was never meant to be permanent or long-lasting, but I think Connor wanted it to be. Hence the title, and the ending. 
> 
> I can't recall crying while writing a fic before, but here we are. I blame Falsettos.
> 
> Sequel to "So Long, Lonesome." After Connor McKinley goes home.

Sex was messy in Uganda. Loud and messy and, frankly, _gross_. There was no way to get properly clean beforehand, and certainly no way to get clean afterwards. Connor McKinley had to get used to the feeling of sweat coating every inch of his skin, spit and seed on his dick, and lube up the ass. It was slick and sticky, both, and he swore he'd never like the feeling.

Sex was awkward there. Mafala's neighbors gave him looks the first few times he leaves, but after that they just went about their day if he has the misfortune of seeing them. Unless he was particularly loud. Then they jeered. People _knew_ , even though Connor was careful to never make any advances in public. He kept a careful distance from Mafala at all times, and was never anything but polite and professional when others could see. When he left the hut after their time together, he always smoothed out his hair with his fingers, straightened his tie, and did everything he could to look Mormon missionary perfect, but, _still_ , people always knew.

The villagers first, then, more slowly, the elders. The Ugandans took to the idea more easily than Connor thought they might, and the worst to come of that was charades, mimicking the way he must ride his lover (Connor refused to ride Mafala for weeks afterwards), or invasive questions about the size of Mafala's prick. And the nicknames. Connor hears the Luo for "Mafala's wife" enough times he almost answered to it in the end.

The elders, though...

"I don't care that you're, whatever," Elder Thomas said one night. "We're all kind of _messed up_ here. But... don't get too close, okay? I don't want to get AIDS." He shrugged one shoulder and smiled, apologetic. Connor didn't know what to say. "I'm all my parents have got," his companion continued. "I don't want to do that to them."

The elders were all friendly and kind and understanding of their district leader's _problem_ until they found out what he was doing about it. Then, one by one, they all withdrew. Laughter and conversations happened before and after he entered a room; not during. Nobody would meet his eyes.

Except for Elder Cunningham, and sometimes Elder Price. They always were strange missionaries, but Elder Cunningham would probably hug a diseased, filth-covered leper woman who cursed his name, and Elder Price- When Elder Price acknowledged him, it was in a way Connor could only describe as _desperate_. It was a showy sort of attention, and he got handsy in front of the others. Almost like he was trying to prove he was a good, accepting person by treating Connor the way the others wouldn't.

Elder Price was a bad actor.

Sex was awkward for more private reasons, too. Cleanliness, for one thing; Connor could hardly stand Mafala's hands on him when he _knew_ he smelled. It wasn't a short walk from the mission house to Mafala's hut, and Connor usually had to make it in the heat of the day, or a few hours after. Mafala worked, too, and smelled like a working man. No matter how much Connor wanted him, body odor always made him wrinkle his nose and reconsider his choices. Until Mafala took off Connor's shirt, or kissed his neck, or went for his belt with that devious grin he had.

They never smelled any better after, either. Connor felt cheated out of the romantic, after-sex tableau he had imagined (when he let himself imagine), because it wasn't romantic at all. It was nice to lay down for a while and catch his breath, yes, but it was very hot, and there were usually bugs they slapped away from each other's skin, and Mafala's bed only had the one sheet to wipe his hands off with, and the condom- condoms weren't the kind of garbage Mafala could throw in the garden as compost. It would go in the fly-covered refuse bin until the whole bin was full of decomposing condoms and other trash too rotted to name. That was disgusting.

And there was the grossness that came from _gay sex_. The fact that Connor's butt was involved was definitely as awkward as Connor feared it would be. There were farts at ridiculous times; any sort of illness put a stop to their fun. Mafala would put his _mouth_ there, sometimes, and Connor refused to kiss him afterwards.

Oh, it _felt_ wonderful. Connor remembers every detail of it and it heats him up from the core, but-

"How can you _do_ that?" he asked, between gasps and straining to hold still. "Isn't it- _oh_ , m-my, isn't that..."

He looked over his shoulder at Mafala, and Mafala grinned back. His chin was dripping with spit, and he wiped it with the back of one hand before replying "I've eaten worse."

Connor refused to think any further on that.

There was something satisfying, though, in walking back to the mission house after time with Mafala. Sometimes it was in the rain that made Connor feel cleaner than an actual shower. He was always sated on those walks, whether Mafala went with him or not. Satisfied. The jagged edges of his world, the lines between good and bad, straight and gay, always fit a little better when he was still sore and stretched and warm from orgasm. Connor thinks he should have felt dirtier.

Sex in the U.S. is, by comparison, sanitized. Everything is cleaner; Connor’s hands dry out from the number of times he has to wash them with antibacterial soap every day. But sex, particularly. It happens on bleached sheets, in air conditioned rooms. Sweat dries fast; come is wiped up with hand towels and disposed of even faster. Nobody smells. Everyone is clean, and cool, and business-like.

Connor thought he would like that. After all, it was the messiness that bothered him, wasn’t it? The physical dirt accompanying the spiritual filth of the sin. Messiness, and people knowing. Nobody knows or cares here. A young man walking alone on the sidewalk on a Saturday morning could be headed to the grocery store or coffee shop or part time job or pleasant date; not necessarily making the walk of shame.

Connor never saw it as a walk of shame. What is that supposed to mean, anyhow? The walk back was the best part. It was the feelings before, the feelings _during_ \- those were shameful. But people in America flaunt their lust and hide the satisfaction afterwards. They make a show of it, then tidy up what’s leftover.

Sex here is like Elder Price’s acting.

Months go by. Connor deletes Grindr from his phone. Sometimes on rainy days, he’ll lube up and go for a walk, enjoying the anonymity almost as much as the feeling of once being filled. He’s cold and soaked by the time he enters his apartment again, but the memories help him forget.

Then he receives a letter from Uganda. It’s not a strange thing; Connor has gotten letters every other month or so for almost a year now. They made him smile, more often than not, and he’s learning to take such moments wherever he finds them. This one contains an extra page beyond Nabulungi’s customary report. The handwriting is messy and practically illegible. The few words Connor can decode are misspelled.

It’s signed _Mafala Hatimbi_.

He says he wants to talk; could Connor send a phone number he could call? Connor sends his reply priority mail express and ignores the cost.

The day Mafala calls is rainy. It’s February, so the rain is half sleet. Connor is curled up on his couch in sweatpants. It’s ten AM on a Saturday.

From the first few words, Connor feels like something’s off. Mafala doesn’t sound the way he remembers. His robust, cheerful voice cracks, and he coughs after every sentence or two.

“Why did you want to call?” Connor asks, after the longest coughing spell. “International calls are expensive, aren’t they?” And letters have sufficed before. Connor’s free hand comes up to circle his neck, a warm, firm pressure he leans into as he waits for an answer. He hasn’t felt this young in a long time.

Mafala makes no joke about how old lovers can reconnect. He clears his throat and murmurs something to Nabulungi. Connor realizes with a start she must be helping him stand.

“I do not have much time left in this world,” Mafala says bluntly. Connor’s hand wraps tighter.

“Going right for the heart, are you?” he asks lightly. Mafala never did beat around the bush.

“International calls are expensive,” Mafala mimics.

Connor chuckles. “I don’t sound like that.”

“Eh…”

A moment of silence.

“How long have you known?” Connor asks quietly.

“Since I got AIDS,” Mafala answers. “I always knew this was coming, Connor. You knew.”

Connor did. He got tested, too, and though he thinks he would have been with Mafala had they had protection or not, the look on the nurse’s face when he said he had a sexual relationship in Nothern Uganda told a different story.

“So you called to say goodbye?”

Mafala hums. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says. “That is all.”

“In love with the sound of my voice, are you?”

“Ah, yes, I missed the sound of squalling white boys. The village is silent without you.”

Another chuckle, louder and longer. Kitgali was never silent. Even if every person in it was stock still and didn’t breathe a word, the animals alone would make enough noise to keep one up at night. “I don’t believe you.”

“Come on, Connor, have I ever lied to you?”

 Connor’s chuckle slows; he bites his lip. Before he left, in a moment of weakness, with Mafala’s hands in his hair and Mafala’s body beneath his, he asked how would he be able to leave? How could he leave this, them, behind?

“This is the b-best thing I’ve ever _had_ ,” he said, crying like a child. “I can’t do it! I c-can’t, I can’t go _back_.”

“Shush,” Mafala replied. The two of them stilled; Connor’s eyes met Mafala’s, searching and a step away from hopeless. “You can go back. You will, and you will be happy.”

“How can y-”

“Shush,” he repeated. That smile, one-sided and familiar and almost a smirk, filled Mafala’s face. “You will, Connor. You will. You will be happy to be back home, I promise. You are not leaving; do not think of it like that. You are going back to somewhere you love. And we will still be here. We are not going anywhere.”

Connor wiped his eyes with the back of one hand.

“You never meant to stay. Tell me, Connor, could you live here forever?”

“...no.”

“No,” he said. “So you will go home, and you will be happy there. I promise you that.”

 

“Yes,” Connor answers. “You said- Mafala, you…” His hand grips even tighter; it almost cuts off Connor’s breath. “I don’t have the money to fly back.”

“That is why I called,” Mafala says, matter-of-factly. “Why would you fly back? That would do you no good. It would do no good for me, either. We will see each other again, will we not?”

“Where?” Connor asks. “In Arnold’s version of heaven?”

Neither of them really believed in Prophet Cunningham. It was one of the few secrets they shared.

“Something like that,” Mafala replies. Connor hears his grin through the static-y line. “I will be waiting, but _you_ \- do not be in any hurry, do you hear? I can bide my time.”

“I w- I won’t hurry.”

“Do not cry, Connor.”

“I’m not.” He is.

“It won’t be long.”

“I know.”

There isn’t much left to say. Connor talks through the lump in his throat; Mafala listens, and answers. Connor can imagine the weight of Mafala’s hand in his, as if they were back in Mafala’s bed, side by side, talking as they used to, before Connor walked back to the mission house; to his title and life and religion.

But international calls are expensive; Mafala’s voice gets dry and rough. Connor’s lip is bleeding from the number of times he’s bitten it.

Connor says “I need to go,” so Mafala doesn’t have to. The man still has some pride.

“Do you?” Mafala says. “Living a big city life, Connor?”

“Of course,” Connor replies. “I have to go do something glamorous and Hollywood-worthy every Saturday afternoon. That’s the price of being gay around here.”

Mafala laughs, and Connor’s heart breaks.

 _Don’t go_ , he thinks. _Don’t leave. I need to know you’re out there somewhere._

“I could barely read your letter,” he says instead. “Where did you learn to spell, honestly.”

Mafala clicks his tongue. “You nag,” he rasps. “Why did I ever let you into my bed?”

“Because I asked.”

“So you did. So you did.” A ragged sigh, then- “My wife. That’s what they used to call you, isn’t it? Connor; my wife.”

Connor smiles. “ _Chuora_ ,” he replies. “Husband. I’m going to miss you.”

“You said that when you left,” Mafala says. “And now you are all right, aren’t you?”

Connor isn’t. Right now, he is the furthest thing from all right. “Yes. I- I’ll be all right.”

“You will,” Mafala tells him. “I’ll see you again.”

The line clicks. There are three beeps. The phone falls to Connor’s lap.

Genuine, he thinks. Sex in Uganda was genuine. It was real. Mafala gave him something real.

Connor closes his eyes and breathes deep. It hurts; he hurts. But at least it was real. They were real.

He’s real.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave kudos/comments!


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